


On The Tip of Your Tongue

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Fellatio, Future Fic, Half-Sibling Incest, Secret Relationship, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 21:10:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6166963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's noticed all his little hints, his mute encouragement and the silent pleas in the movement of his body. He doesn't push her head down -- Jon would <i>never</i> -- but whenever she strays low on his body, he grips at her hair, his thumbs brushing her ears as he holds great fistfuls of it with hands gone white at the knuckles. Sometimes he bucks his hips up at her a little, not deliberately but instinctively, desperately, his body overruling his mind in its desire. Then there are the times he actually whimpers, a sound she doesn't think he even hears himself making as her busy fingers work the placket of his breeches as she makes him ready for her bed. </p><p>Yes, Sansa knows precisely what Jon wants. She just wants to hear him say it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On The Tip of Your Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> For the valar_morekinks kinkmeme prompt: Jon wants to ask Sansa to, well. To give him head. But he really, really doesn't know how to.

He wouldn't thank her for saying it, but Jon is adorable when he's flustered. Sansa can practically hear his protests, his insistence that he's rugged or compelling, like a man, not like a babe or a darling fluff of a kitten. He can't be _adorable_. But Sansa knows that he is, and the irony of it being his inability to ask for her mouth on his cock that makes him so only pleases her all the more.

She's noticed all his little hints, his mute encouragement and the silent pleas in the movement of his body. He doesn't push her head down -- Jon would _never_ \-- but whenever she strays low on his body, he grips at her hair, his thumbs brushing her ears as he holds great fistfuls of it with hands gone white at the knuckles. Sometimes he bucks his hips up at her a little, not deliberately but instinctively, desperately, his body overruling his mind in its desire. Then there are the times he actually whimpers, a sound she doesn't think he even hears himself making as her busy fingers work the placket of his breeches as she makes him ready for her bed. 

Yes, Sansa knows precisely what Jon wants. She just wants to hear him say it.

It's a challenge. The men Sansa has known before weren't half so shy as Jon is about asking for what they wanted, or even simply taking it. Jon's reticence -- born, she suspects, out of love and respect for her more than a true lack of courage -- is charming in its way, dear for how novel it is to her. Still, something in her wants to provoke him past reticence, to fire him with a need so great that he forgets everything but his base desires, and desperate times call for desperate measures.

“What’s all this?” he asks when he enters her chambers, late, after the household is asleep and there’s no one to see the captain of her Queensguard stealing into her rooms. Sansa looks around at the many candles she’s lit, pleased at the sense of intimacy and at the prettiness of it, the candlelight flickering over the lush velvet of her bedhangings and the decadent pile of intricately embroidered pillows practically covering the mattress. She may have to be a steely, austere ruler before her court, but in her private realm she indulges every bit of feminine softness she’s rediscovered the joys of, after having once lost her taste for it in the face of life’s harsh realities.

The question lingers in Jon’s face as he looks at her, setting aside his weapons and shrugging out of his jerkin. Sansa doesn’t answer. She merely steps close to him, her bare toes pressing on the cool leather of his boots, and kisses him with all the coaxing invitation she plans to deploy in her bed as soon as he’s in it. His jerkin hits the floor with a loud slap and Sansa almost giggles for how sexual it sounds to her in her current state. There are days when she feels twice her age but here with Jon, she could almost be a girl again.

He lets her lead him to her bed, following without question in that trusting, loyal way he has that always makes her feel warm all over. “Remove your tunic,” she says in soft command. Obediently, he strips it over his head, only to drop it half on top of hers when she leans forward to suck a mark into the skin at the base of his throat.

“Sorry,” he laughs, collecting the wayward shirt. “You surprised me.” The shirt is still in his hands when he drops them to her hips. She can feel the pull of the linen across her backside as he pulls her against him, tipping his head back to give her more access. She continues to layer open-mouthed kisses all over his throat and chest and down his belly, allowing herself an inwardly smug grin when the shirt finally drops and his hands spread through her hair. Not grabbing or pulling, just holding handfuls of it in his fists, stroking the edges of her ears with absent thumbs. Sansa feels a wicked thrill as she imagines what she might do to make those gentle hands turn rough. No time like the present.

The floor is cool and rough against her knees even through the thin cloth of her shift. She’s bent or crouched to undo his breeches before, but never anything quite so explicit as this. He’s aware of the difference himself, given his raised eyebrows and the glimmer of interest in his eyes as he looks down upon her.

“What are you up to?” His voice is so warm and fond she could cry. It only makes her want to make him beg for her more. She only smiles up at him as she tugs his loosened breeches down past his hips. He’s hard already. Sansa resists the urge to just skip all the teasing and toying and take him in her mouth right now. She’s a woman with a goal in mind.

He jumps at the stab of her tongue in his navel, then groans when she nips the hard curve of muscle below it with her teeth. “ _Sansa_.” She ignores him. The hair furring his belly is prickly against her tongue. It’s coarser here than elsewhere on his body, making it familiar and new all at once. She can feel his cock twitching at her throat as she presses sweet, chaste kisses across his belly, along the creases of his thighs, in the hollows of his hipbones. When she darts her tongue to taste one of those hollows, he jerks and gives such a moan that she could think he’s being tortured.

Slowly, thoroughly, she explores him with her lips and tongue and even her teeth, every bit but his cock. He holds still for her as best he can, trembling and sighing, uttering her name in pained reverence. Still he doesn’t ask. Even when she turns her head to drag her lips lightly over the side of his cock and his knees pitch and dip so that he sits clumsily on the edge of the mattress, he doesn’t ask. He’s quite impossible, her captain.

“ _Sansa_ ,” he moans again when she repeats the caress on the other side. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“No,” she says, pulling away to smile up at him. She shifts her knees on the hard floor. Next time, she’ll have to remember a pillow to kneel on. “I’m trying to get you to beg.”

He laughs and then sucks in his breath at another drag of her lips. “You’re a sly bit of baggage all of a sudden.”

“Is that any way to speak to your Queen?” she demands. The look he gives her through heavy-lidded eyes is hot enough to warm even her floor-chilled knees.

“It’s the way to speak to my gorgeous tease of a lover.”

His lover. It never fails to thrill her. It’s all the more delicious that it’s their secret, their shared game, something that isn’t shared with her court, her subjects, with the world. She would keep him here in her bed for weeks if she could; that she can’t only makes it all the more enticing.

“If you would ask, I wouldn’t have to tease. So tell me, my captain. What is it you wish?”

“Sansa.” His touch is unspeakably tender as he cups her cheek in his palm. She presses a kiss to the center of his hand.

“What do you want, Jon?”

“You,” he answers simply, and it’s not as if she can deny that, even if it’s not the answer she was so determined to wrest out of him. The sound he makes when she takes him in her mouth is animal, primal. She tests him, tastes him, lavishes him with lips and tongue. The more she tastes him, the stiller he grows, holding himself rigid with his hands fisted in the furs at his sides. It’s only when he begins to tremble violently, his peak clearly at hand, that he moves, reaching down to grab her under the arms and haul her up his body. He pulls her over him as he tips back onto the bed, his mouth finding hers in an almost punishing kiss as he spills against her belly in warm pulses that dampen her shift and pastes it to her skin.

Her wet shift has grown clammy by the time he moves again, settling her to his side and tucking her under his chin. Sansa cuddles against him happily. Her body is thrumming with unfulfilled arousal but she’s content to lie here with him a bit more. They’ve more night ahead of them, after all.

“I’ll have you ask for it yet,” she vows, giving him a poke in the ribs. His chuckle vibrates through her.

“I’ll enjoy the attempts,” he promises her.


End file.
